


The Art of Forgetting

by spacejargon



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 07:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16571984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacejargon/pseuds/spacejargon
Summary: Malik cannot forgive what he cannot forget.





	The Art of Forgetting

_There is no peace as long as you are alive._

The words sting the next time he visits the Assassin’s Bureau in Jerusalem. Through common ridicule, Altaïr has come to expect it.

Just not this.

“I want to forget,” so says the one-armed Dai who approaches without hesitance. His cheeks are flushed—from fever, no doubt. Or anger, which suits him better than the rosy tint of sickness. His head thumps against Altaïr, who freezes in place the moment Malik comes for him from behind his counter. “Make me forget,” he mutters against Altaïr’s shoulder.

Who is he to say no?

“I can’t,” is the stony confession, bitter as silence. He does not push Malik away. Malik is only using him and he supposes it’s fair, using each other as they have been. “I can’t make you forget me.”

Malik’s fingers curl into his robes. He prepares himself for the rough shove that would send a weaker man sprawling against the wall.

It doesn’t come.

Instead of violence, as they are both prone to, in their own ways, Malik’s fingers hang on the front of Altaïr’s robes, right under his throat. If there’s a dagger up his sleeve, he could end it quickly.

“What,” Malik’s grave voice rumbles in his throat with a hoarse noise from a sickness that’s been passing through Jerusalem. “Makes you think I could forget you?”

His fingers tighten and Altaïr forgets to breathe. One second, then two, and Malik is silent until he finally speaks again.

“Arrogance,” Malik snarls as he releases Altaïr’s robes, pushing himself away. His back turns to Altaïr, the black of his Dai robes acting as the space that grows between them. There is no reflection better than the darkest depths of black for Altaïr. “Perhaps once a great warrior to some, but you do not belong to the Assassins. You are merely a product of arrogance, drenched in your own pride.”

Altaïr’s tongue gets the better of him. “What do you want from me, Dai?”

“What _I_ want? Have you given _any_ thought to what I have asked!?” Malik snarls and turns to face him, his lips twisted in a sneer of hatred. The clasps of his left sleeve come undone, the empty sleeve fluttering like a broken bird to fall to his side. When Malik catches Altaïr’s eyes, following the fabric, his anger deepens. “I ask for only one thing: for your head on a stake so I may be at peace! I ask for the calmness of night to not escape me, and for the peace of mind left in tatters in my head to be made whole or forgotten!”

Malik reaches for his robes, his hand delving within them to remove a wispy feather that remains a pure white. Untainted. His eyes flash back to Altaïr with nothing but a coldness to his burning hatred. His lips twist in a grimace and his jaw clenches tightly when his feet mark his closeness in approaching Altaïr, the feather grasped between his fingers.

The bite of the feather’s edge against Altaïr’s throat marks the tension that draws him as tightly as Malik bites his tongue.

“I want the day of your death to be commemorated with the same callousness you afforded me and my brother. I want nothing more than to be repaid the debt that cannot be filled, for not the emptiness of my body,” his voice lowers to a venomous bite, “but the loss of the one who deserved none of this.”

The feather digs into his throat, where Altaïr can feel the skin splitting and beads of blood slipping down his throat. The bite is similar to that of a cut from shaving, though in this case, the sting is far worse.

The feather turns and brushes against Altaïr’s jugular. It lingers there, as Malik stares into him with the gaze that could catch a glimpse of the far future that evades the normal man. Despite the blood dripping from his Adam’s apple, the feather does not move to collect it.

Either from the lack of air or the choking proximity, Altaïr’s head is spinning. Black spots burn into his eyes as his throat moves carefully to swallow, feeling the pull and tear of the fine cut with each movement.

Malik searches him and cannot find what he seeks. Altaïr knows that much, having never known what fully goes on within the Dai’s head and never possessing the ability to know. The question of it sounds far worse, but not as much as being left in the dark.

Face flushed, Malik does not let his sickened appearance strike through the image of his intimidation. “I cannot hate you,” he mutters, breathing deeply as if to calm himself. The feather pulls away from Altaïr, as well as Malik, though he does not turn his back to him again. “I have spent far too long trying to hate you. And I have learned nothing will come of hate, though I knew that from the start.”

He blows a harsh breath through his nose. A cough grasps him at an inopportune moment and Malik’s head wrenches to the side, choking out mucus and unspoken words until he brings his arm to his mouth. The coughs rattle him, Altaïr witnesses this with no question, and the flush to Malik’s face deepens the longer he spends coughing and wheezing for air.

“You are ill, brother,” Altaïr chooses his words carefully, not knowing what will set him off. “Hate me as you will, but rest before this illness consumes you on your feet.”

Malik wipes his mouth on his sleeve, his eyes cast with a film seen in the right angle of candlelight within the bureau. “After all this time,” he croaks, the feather in his fingers fluttering away as it drops from his hold. “You still do not know how to listen.”

The Dai turns on his feet and retreats to his chambers, coughing like a man plagued by death as Altaïr watches him go. The feather on the floor remains untouched by filth, capturing Altaïr’s attention long after Malik is gone. But not being able to see him does not mean Altaïr cannot hear him cough his lungs out from down the darkened hallway he defected to.

He touches a hand to his throat, his fingers pulling away with blood as the cut starts to sting noticeably once again. Ignoring it, he reaches for the feather absently, as careless as he is, and doesn’t realize his mistake until he’s grabbed it. When he brings it to his eyes he spots the red stains left by his fingers, realizing with a pang in his gut that even in this, he has failed.

~

The first time he sees Malik after the loss of his arm, the Dai is far worse for wear the moment he lays eyes upon Altaïr. With disgust growing on his face—surely, word would have been sent before Altaïr’s arrival that he was meant to be in Jerusalem for a time—he holds back no animosity, bordering on the line of terse professionalism and outright hostile fury.

A greeting slips from a programmed behavior. Nothing more. “Safety and peace, brother.”

Malik’s eyes tear sharply from the map he’s working on to glare at Altaïr. “Your presence here deprives me of both,” he snaps back, jabbing the quill on the page with unnecessary force. Both of them know how angry he is. “What do you want?”

Annoyed, but not fully feeling ire at Malik’s casual insult, Altaïr continues. “Al Mualim has asked—”

“Asked that you perform some menial task in an effort to redeem yourself. So be out with it,” Malik gives no time for arguing with him, his entire body rigid as he stands behind the desk. Without it there, Altaïr does not know what Malik would do, but haughtily decides that Malik is far too cowardly to show just how angry he is.

Gritting his teeth, Altaïr tries again. “Tell me what you can about the one they call Talal,”

Venom spits in his words as he retorts sharply. “It is your duty to locate and assassinate the man, Altaïr. Not mine.”

“You’d do well to assist me,” Altaïr sucks a breath through his nose and sighs through his teeth. Malik is infuriating when he’s difficult like this, but never before has he been this downright nasty. “His death benefits the entire land.”

Malik’s shoulders shrug as if he’s close to laughing. He puffs up and coils in on himself like a cobra, the clasped left sleeve of his robe fluttering in the mix of movement. “Do you deny his death benefits you as well?”

“Such things do not concern me.”

Those are the wrong words to say, for one moment Malik is calm, simmering underneath the surface, and the next he is vibrant and fueled with fire, his hand empty as it grabs for nothing on his desk.

“Your actions very much concern me!” His hand grabs onto his left sleeve, knowing Altaïr is watching when he meets the other’s eyes and Altaïr says nothing. His lips pull in a snarl, rage burning just behind dark eyes as his fingers bleed white where his knuckles tighten into the empty fabric.

But as soon as he releases some of his wrath, the rest bleeds away under a calm facade.

Altaïr tells himself not to make note of it. It is _nothing_ to him.

He turns to leave, deciding it the best course of action rather than staying to listen to an uncooperative Dai until he finds something sharp enough to throw at him. “Then don’t help me. I’ll find him myself.”

He’s halfway out the door, bristling under the skin in what he feels as sorely righteous anger toward Malik, growing out of little more than strict irritation when Malik’s voice cracks like a whip.

The sigh that escapes Malik is telling when he pulls Altaïr back, on the promise of a terse relationship between Rafiq and Assassin. Nothing more, nothing less.

Malik, Altaïr decides on his own, is wrong about him. Everyone else is, but Malik most unjustly of all.

It makes less sense when Altaïr leaves and he can feel his own blood boiling in his veins, as if having bled off some of Malik’s anger into himself.

~

The sharpness of the words cuts through Altaïr deeply. Or maybe it’s the gash that clings to his shoulder and gnarls itself over his chest, bleeding rather heavily and turning his robes a shade of crimson.

“Safety and peace,” he croaks, catching his breath while his adrenaline pumps steadily in his veins, his feet alight and waiting for the next move to force him to run again. The guards this time had been particularly attentive, straying to rooftops and refusing to back down long after he’d killed five or so.

Malik’s words haunt him, sounding like a crack of thunder. “There is no peace as long as you are alive.”

The Dai, at his desk with the map under him, like the last few times Altaïr has caught him in the bureau, raises his eyes from his work. He clicks his tongue and huffs with disregard, the line of his sight traveling from the tatters of bloodstained fabric to the growing puddle at Altaïr’s feet. “You’re bleeding all over my floor, _novice_.”

Altaïr does not know what possess him when he replies, “I am,” with a faint sense of arrogance, watching Malik’s face twist in a mix of unreadable anger. “I thought you would be satisfied with seeing my blood.”

The provocation digs its fangs in deeply. “Not all over my floor. If I had my way, you would be bleeding out in the town’s square, with every civilian to witness your failure.” Malik’s quill moves in sharp, scratching strokes. The ink bottle nearly spills when his hand pulls back and snaps toward it, dipping it in roughly as ink splatters over the desk.

Either the blood loss will get to him, or Malik will. At this point, Altaïr cares little for the latter, though not fond of bleeding out in the bureau of the most hostile man he’s ever met. “Careful, brother,” Altaïr cuts through in no short order, terse, “or your words will raise suspicion of treason for those who overhear them.”

“Good,” Malik brushes him off, turning his attention back to his work. “Perhaps then they will treat you accordingly instead of allowing a traitor to try to redeem himself. Now get out— _after_ you clean your blood off my floors.”

This game is one that Malik will play to the ends of time. Altaïr should’ve known that by now, but standing here in the bureau and feeling faint will get him nowhere.

“Dai,” Altaïr starts again, his patience growing or his blood thinning: one of the two. “I require bandaging. Do you have any you can spare?”

Malik snorts. “You need much more than bandaging, my friend,” he spits the word _friend_ with nothing but enmity to its definition. But alas, his eyes move from his work and the jagged scratchings of the quill cease when he places it beside the map. “You need stitches.”

“Yes,” Altaïr grits through his teeth and tries not to let the lightheadedness get to him. “Please, can you help me or not?”

The Dai shakes his head and for a moment Altaïr fears he’ll have to climb out and search for a doctor. He’s not sure he has the strength to do it at the current moment, and with the bells still tolling, awaiting his death.

“Your arrogance,” Malik seethes as he comes from behind the counter, holding a kit of supplies while directing Altaïr to sit, “is not my concern. But it will get you killed, should you keep up your games.”

Altaïr nearly falls over when he has to brace himself against the wall, head spinning and a bloodied handprint left in his wake. He means to retort, the idea driven by a childish desire to have the last word, as Malik is always keen to do.

But it doesn’t come. Like the slap across his face from Al Mualim that Malik could easily deliver with twice as much force and half the effort, it doesn’t come. Malik pours something that feels like a thousand bee stings all at once and it takes grinding his teeth to dust to not cry out in pain.

The rest of the encounter he fails to remember, only recalling the eyes of distrust Malik gazes upon him with, holding the needle in his mouth and tying it with his fingers. When Altaïr finally slumps against the wall, the last thought he holds is that Malik will surely enact his revenge.

When he wakes to the light of mid afternoon, Malik is nowhere to be seen.

~

The last time he comes to Malik, the time before Malik had placed his head on Altaïr’s shoulder, had been a copy of any other visit.

Except only it wasn’t, and in the end, it left more to be desired. Curious and wanting, and ultimately, adding to the headache developing within the depths of Altaïr’s mind.

“Safety and peace, Dai,” Altaïr speaks as he’s fresh from Masyaf, Al Mualim’s words cling to the curves of his skull and give him no peace. Not on the long ride over has he considered speaking aloud of it, especially now when he greets Malik.

Malik has his map out once more, nearly completed, but the quill remains dry and untouched at the side. A book lies on the desk just across from him, untouched as well.

His attention is slow to reach Altaïr and when it does, Altaïr expects more of him. He does not expect the sigh of what sounds like defeat. He shakes his head at the thought—Malik is far too stubborn to dwell in absolutes.

Unlike him, that is.

“Tell me, what have you come for now?” There is a rigid quality to his voice, but nothing of an overtly hostile nature. Malik appears to be seething, as he is wont to do in Altaïr’s presence, but says nothing of it. “Have you learned anything on your way here, or am I going to repeat myself once again?”

It is not the first time a barb doesn’t come to Altaïr’s lips. He hasn’t traded them with Malik for quite some time now. Even with the edge of an insult inviting an argument, he refuses the bait.

“I have,” Altaïr finds the words, and at Malik’s narrowed eyes he clarifies. “Of our enemies. Al Mualim believes they are growing stronger despite my efforts in halting their progression.”

“Tell me, what arrogance do you ascribe to now that allows you to think you are the only one working with meaning?”

Altaïr’s lips thin into a pursed line. He refrains, as his mind no longer wishes to draw out Malik’s fury. No part of him does, not after seeing him time and time again knowing that with each time Malik lays eyes on him he is stirred by the memories he will never erase.

“My mistake,” Malik’s eyes widen at that but only for a fraction of a second. He is not so easily convinced. “I believe there is something troubling.”

“Well then, spit it out,” Malik says in what is decidedly not what Altaïr expects _in the slightest._ Nevertheless, it still happens. “What troubles you today, Altaïr?”

This is the first time he has not heard Malik use his name like a curse. Which makes sense for why it catches him off guard. “I...must consider it further,” he hesitates, cutting the thread before it can begin to weave itself into unsteady bearings. Another Rafiq had already asked him the same thing without prompting and left him ill with suspicion. Malik is not the same, but...he cannot risk it.

Malik is silent for a few moments, contemplative. “If it returns to you, then I shall listen,” he offers, showing no outward sign of change as he grabs his quill and reaches to dip it in an ink pot sitting to the other side of the map. “For now I suggest you gather information, but do not stray far from here. Tonight the city is in the grips of paranoia and skittish guards. I do know of trouble brewing, but I am uncertain as to the cause.”

His words sound like those delivered to any other but Altaïr. What of all the blame and anger, or the explosive outbursts? What happened to the Malik that would deign to throw an ink pot at him just for making a snide remark?

Maybe Malik doesn’t feel it anymore. Which would be strange, if he had any grasp of the same removed nature as Altaïr does regarding their relationship, because it would be too close to the truth. One that has always lingered, never surfaced.

“Otherwise,” Malik chimes in again, the soft scratch of the quill on the map filling silence that grows throughout the bureau, “get some rest. Tonight will be quiet in this part of the city.”

Two words come out at once. The mumble of them catches Malik’s ear, but Altaïr clarifies carefully. “Thank you, Malik.”

Malik hums, and pretends he does not hear the words that come as a restless murmur once Altaïr goes to rest.

_I’m sorry._

~

The last time Altaïr comes to Malik’s bureau he drops in, exhausted but not bloody, and his robes clinging to him with a paste of sweat and sand. The bright sun all day has left him fatigued and dehydrated, licking his lips as he cups his hands in the fountain and drinks deeply until he can no longer breathe.

Malik does not call out a customary greeting and Altaïr does not notice. His mind is too busy, stuck on trying to figure out the last words Malik told him days before: _What have you learned?_

Apparently, the enemies Al Mualim assigns to him are not part of the answer. Deep down, Altaïr has realized this for much longer than he lets on. Malik says nothing, and never speaks of it unless if Altaïr is visiting for the first time in a while.

Coughing interrupts Altaïr. He stands from the fountain, legs shaking with exertion but still steady, and enters the bureau. Malik is nowhere to be seen and makes no sound of letting Altaïr know he’s there. All that echoes throughout the bureau is the sound of rough coughing.

“Brother, are you well?” Altaïr’s eyes trail on the increasing shadows that line the walls. The sun is long gone, having disappeared from the horizon hours ago, and candlelight is the only light that remains.

He waits for a little longer, unnerved by the passing seconds of silence when the coughing stops. But sure enough, just as he’s considering jumping over the counter and investigating to satisfy his curiosity, Malik appears.

Malik is disheveled, to say the least. His eyes are still sharp but lacking focus, and his robes are put on properly and distinguished, but they are askew on his form. When he appears from the hallway he swallows and breathes noisily in a rasp through his mouth, making no mention of Altaïr’s inquisitive stare.

“What do you want?” he asks, plain and irritated like before. His voice is nasal and when Altaïr spots the red that burns on Malik’s cheeks, he confirms his suspicions. Well, some, at least. “Please, hurry and spit it out. I have no patience for you tonight.”

An apology comes free, natural as light of day and having waited on Altaïr’s lips long enough. “I’m sorry, Malik.”

Malik raises his watery eyes to stare at him. “What?”

He doesn’t need to clarify, because Malik’s expression is soon changing and despite the heaviness that prevails in the way he holds himself, he changes in the blink of an eye. Whether it’s anger or disgust, Altaïr cannot tell at present moment, but a terrifying force grips onto Malik and wrings him tightly in its grasp.

“I’m sorry.”

Malik sneers. “Are you, now? What for, pray tell? Are you apologizing for the murder of yet another innocent, or are you apologizing for disturbing me at such a late hour? Surely you aren’t apologizing for something else, because I have heard your apologies in the past and I do not care to hear them again.”

The line of his mouth softens as soon as he pauses to breathe. Coughing and flushed, he still manages to be a terrifying figure of righteous fury. “I have told you, Altaïr,” he speaks softly now, his words catching on the rasp of his throat, “that I have heard your apologies. You do not owe me them. We discussed this.”

He feels no inclination to agree. “I do,” Altaïr argues, stepping further into the bureau. “You may have heard me before, but I do not believe you listened.”

“I do not care for listening to this right now, Altaïr,” Malik coughs into his arm and leaves the security of behind the counter. His feet drag on the floor, and it is clear he hasn’t slept in a while, going by the bags under his eyes. “Why are you bothering with this?”

“What do you want from me?” he speaks in earnest, for if he doesn’t the words will churn in his stomach for far too long. “I see it in your eyes when we speak, Dai. I may be a fool, but I am not blind enough to notice there is something bothering you.”

He steps forward, abandoning some degree of caution. Even ill, Malik can still be a force to be reckoned with.

Malik’s head falls on his shoulder. “I want to forget,” he murmurs, right over the scar of where he’d stitched Altaïr’s jagged gash long ago. “Make me forget, Altaïr.”

~

After Malik’s outburst, and long after Altaïr watched him retreat to the sound of hoarse coughs, he stands in the bureau, alone. In his fingers is the dyed feather he places on the counter top, for Malik to retrieve later.

His feet follow the sound of coughing. Down the hallway is where Malik’s wheezing grows louder, and he doesn’t stop until he comes to a door slightly ajar, light flickering from within. Altaïr raises his fist to knock, but the string of coughs that come from behind it drown out the sound.

The door moves with the slightest of touches. Altaïr eases himself in and he finds Malik lying against the wall upon his bed of pillows and rugs, his back to him while he stares straight ahead.

“Malik,” Altaïr presses his luck, coming to the bedside of the Dai with little reservation. The room smells of sickness and burning sage. Church-like, in Altaïr's experience.

Malik wipes at his mouth and refuses to turn to him. “Why are you still here?” he asks aloud, his voice tinged with annoyance. “You won’t listen to me, why listen to reason?”

Altaïr’s fingers work at removing his blade, working to remove all outer traces of gear that stick to him with dried sweat. He discards them in a pile behind Malik, far enough away where Malik cannot reach. It’s not necessary, but he still does it out of habit, stripping down to his robes which itch and feel uncomfortable, even as he peels them off, layer by layer.

“Stop that,” Malik grouses, slouching over as he breathes through his mouth in shallow, stinging breaths. “You’re getting filth all over my floors.”

Altaïr bends down next to him. When Malik doesn’t strike him, he finds a place to sit on a discarded pillow. Carefully, he reaches out a hand to Malik’s forehead, where he catches beads of sweat on his browline.

“Have you taken anything for this?” Altaïr asks, his voice low as Malik winds himself up and through another bout of coughing.

“I will, I will,” Malik huffs, his fingers twitching but not moving to swat Altaïr’s hand away. “Go away, and stop pestering me for once.”

The dizzy feeling in his head remains, but it’s no longer making the room spin. “I will, if that is what you wish. In return for answering a question.”

Malik rolls his eyes. “Is that all I am to you,” he clips, his voice lacking heat as Altaïr’s hand pulls away from him. “Just a source of amusement?”

When Altaïr doesn’t answer him, he acquiesces. “Fine, fine, tell me what you want.”

“Do you hate me, brother?”

There’s a long stretch of silence that goes on between them until Malik shivers, pulling his robes closer around himself and mumbles aloud. “So you still don’t listen.”

“I want to,” Altaïr replies without hesitation. “Speak so that I may.”

“Altaïr, I’m tired of this,” Malik grumbles and shoots him a withering glare, his head resting against the wall. “Go play your games somewhere else. I’m too tired.”

“I know you do not hold me accountable for my actions back then. You claimed I am not the same man you knew, the last time we spoke.”

Malik doesn’t speak. By the sound of his breathing, he’s not asleep, either.

“I have failed you, brother, in more ways than one. I do not deserve your forgiveness. And I cannot make you forget the things I have done. My actions have been led by my selfishness, and you were the one to pay the price.”

He clears his throat in the long pause that results. “I deserve your hatred, Malik.”

Malik moves at once, turning to face Altaïr with his cloudy eyes and burning skin, but still present as he narrows his eyes at him. “You’re not getting my pity, either. You have changed, Altaïr, and it is high time you realized that. Your apologies mean nothing if you don’t believe them yourself.”

“What can I do, then?”

The way he waits for Malik’s answer makes the other bite into his cheek to try to hold his tongue. “Enough questions. I will answer you if you quit bothering me—I do not hate you.”

Altaïr, master assassin in skill but absolutely foolish in all other things, persists. “Why?”

Malik swallows and his eyes droop, but he remains forcefully awake. “I cannot hate you, Altaïr. I have tried, and I have failed in that endeavor far too many times.”

Altaïr dimly comes to the realization that what has been growing between them, this balance, is far too delicate if he holds his silence for too long. He reads Malik’s face as best he can, still hazy with illness but undoubtedly clear, and he realizes Malik is waiting for him, too.

“Speak,” he works slowly around the word, “and I will listen.”

“Shut up,” is the answer he gets, and it’s the best one he’ll ever get when Malik’s head moves to his shoulder and Altaïr is in his bed. Steadied by a hand underneath him to support himself, his other hand moves to the sweat furrowing Malik’s brow.

“Rest.”

Malik’s eyes close when Altaïr moves to kiss him, feeling a sigh against his lips when Malik’s weight shifts onto him.

The end is nigh, but not for this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
